


Blood-Stained Flowers

by nindroidzane



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: I Tried, Other, angsty tankie, bit o blood n alcoholism, left unity aha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:26:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23380882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nindroidzane/pseuds/nindroidzane
Summary: What happens after a leftist revolution? I write this I guess
Relationships: Authleft/Libleft
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	Blood-Stained Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Tankie says "friend" a lot but he is of course wrong

The flowers blew softly in the wind, gentle whispers sounding between soft yellow petals. Stars twinkled in the sky and mosquitos buzzed noisily past, with the occasional bat swooping down to catch one. 

Commie took another swig from his bottle and heaved a sigh. He'd been sitting here for hours, putting this off. Reluctantly, he brought his gaze down to the sight directly before him. The flowers here weren't yellow. Not anymore, anyway. They were stained red with the spilled blood of his small comrade, who still laid at his feet in the lush grass. Quis figure looked extra dull, with the sliver of moon illuminating the brighter blades of grass.

Ancom used to look that bright, Commie thought as he downed the remainder of his vodka. Quee was always as bright as the dew-spotted grass when quee was describing quis foolish ideas of the future, or quis plans for the revolution. Plans of unity always made quis eyes sparkle like the stars. 

The large man shook his head gruffly to get the image of a hopeful Ancom out of his head and tossed the empty bottle to the side. It landed in a patch of grass, crushing the soft green blades with its force. He turned his head to Ancom, who lay crumpled in a heap of hoodie and blood. The force of the revolution had crushed quem as well, it seemed. 

Pushing thoughts of this having been anything but necessary out of his mind, Commie heaved himself to his feet. So far, he had managed to keep himself impartial to this whole affair. However, he knew his emotions would catch up eventually. The vodka had been brought along for a reason. Reaching for his well worn shovel, the ideology rubbed at his forehead with his sleeve. Dried blood flaked off in the dull moonlight. He pretended he hadn't seen.

Normally, Commie thought hard work was a good thing. If everyone did their equal share of it, things would be perfect. But on his own, under the cold, judging stars, digging this hole was the hardest work he'd ever done, and this time it wasn't rewarding. 

The deed was starting to get to him, and his legs were starting to shake, but he had to take care of this before it all hit him too fast. Dirt sprayed from the earth as he quickened his pace, along with uprooted flowers and soft blades of grass. A few of them landed on his blood stained friend. Quee looked small and fragile. Commie's shovel bit into the dirt more harshly.

Fat droplets of rain were beginning to fall as the man turned to the figure in the grass once more. With the moon hidden behind the clouds, as though it knew what he had done, quee hardly looked like more than a shadow. The whispers of an already fading memory, and quee wasn't even in the ground yet. Commie bit down hard on his lip, and guilt churned painfully in his stomach. This wasn't how things were supposed to have gone. Well…

He hesitated, rubbing his bleeding, splinter filled hands on his pants. This was exactly how he was planning the revolution to go. This tied it up nicely, in fact. Ancom wouldn't be a nuisance anymore, and he was free to do what he needed to without quis whining. 

But if this was what he'd wanted, he wondered, why were tears mingling with the downpour of rain? 

He didn't dwell on it too long. Instead, he heaved up the small shape of the former ideology and glanced around the flower field. The last thing quee had seen. Earlier, it had been lovely. No blood stained the ground, and the sun shone brightly down on the two of them. Even Ancom's high pitched voice wasn't terribly annoying. Now, wind tore at the flowers quee had called beautiful, and they lamely bent beneath it. It whipped at his face as well, doing nothing to help the stinging in his eyes. He stumbled back to his freshly dug hole. It looked out of place, a gaping wound in the ground where brightly coloured flowers should have been. In the dark, empty night, it looked like an abyss. An endless void that was about to swallow Ancom and take quem forever. 

Something in his heart snapped. This was a mistake. He was making a horrible mistake. He looked wildly at the shape in his arms, some insane sliver of hope telling him that quee might still be alive and okay, and they could both leave here together. Lightning flashed behind them. It reflected in Ancom's eyes. The crazed hope exploded, fueled by the cruel trick of the light and hours of drinking that had followed shooting quem. The ideology screamed at his former comrade, legs shaking and heart racing. The rain poured violently, matching the rivers of tears and washing the crusted blood from them both. Ancom's soggy figure didn't move. Commie buried his face into quis hair and sobbed. 

It was hours before he could pull himself away and accept that quee wasn't coming back. The rain was long gone by then, and Commie forced himself to relinquish quem into the muddy, rain filled hole. Burying quem was supposed to be easier, he'd thought. It took much more effort to watch Ancom slowly disappear underneath the dirt and mangled flowers. Despite himself, he was still crying as he scooped up the last bit of earth and placed it on the mound. It was weak, he knew. But dripping wet in the field of sagging flowers that looked just as sad as he was, he couldn't help it. He only wished he'd brought more vodka to numb the pain a little.

With a soft, ragged sigh, Commie took a last look down at his work. Ancom was under there, he reminded himself. Lost to the world forever. With a great deal of effort, he picked a large handful of the least damaged flowers rather roughly and placed them in a bedraggled bouquet on top of the disturbed pile of dirt. His heart ached painfully. 

Sluggishly picking up his shovel, he began to drag himself away, leaving behind Ancom's grave surrounded by muddy vodka bottles and torn up plants. He refused to look back, telling himself he would be over it soon. Deep down, he knew he never would be, but he crushed that feeling further inside where he could ignore it. Swiping angrily at his damp face, he lifted his gaze up from the bright, glistening grass and focused on the path ahead of him. Furrowing his brows, he tried to force a look of confidence on his face. Guilt, anger and despair gnawed at his gut, but on the outside, he was the same man who had walked in here yesterday with Ancom. Calm. Collected. And ready to _truly_ begin his revolution. 


End file.
